


Molly's Revenge

by Griselda_Howl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (hopefully), Bad Pun, Crack, Does John even have a car?, He does now, Humor, It gets really freaky, M/M, Molly is Sherlock's lab assistant, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Please forgive me I've only seen 3 episodes Molly is probably OOC, Rare kinks, Rule 34, Unwitting drug use, What Have I Done, for real, hell hath no fury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griselda_Howl/pseuds/Griselda_Howl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock cooks up a serum that makes the recipient extremely aroused. What he doesn’t anticipate is the woman he pissed off one too many times tampering with the formula and causing some very interesting side effects…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Molly's Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> The deepest of thanks to KittieHill for Brit checking for me! In addition to being lovely to talk to, she’s a fantastic writer, so definitely check her out if you haven’t already! (http://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill) 
> 
> I have a friend who loves puns, and she came up with one during a recent conversation that inspired this fic. I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make sure rule 34 stays true.

Molly entered the lab to find Sherlock hunched over a microscope as usual. She noticed he looked particularly frazzled, but not quite in his typical on-a-tough-case way. He’d been working on this particular project for days, but all she knew was that it was some kind of serum and that it had something to do with John Watson. She had to find out more—if lipstick and fake love rivals wouldn’t catch the man’s attention, perhaps sharing in his passions could. After swiping her already clammy hands down the sides of her coat (which the clerk assured her accented her figure beautifully), she sauntered (as much as her shyness allowed) over to the microscope.

“What are you working on?” she asked quietly.

“Busy.”

Molly’s heart fell, just a little, but she was prepared for that. “It’s just—I thought maybe I could help.”

Sherlock lifted his head, marginally, to raise one elegant eyebrow at her. His gaze was in passing and certainly wouldn’t take note of her new coat. “You?” He lowered himself back to the scope. “Honestly,” he mumbled.

And that did it. Morning pep talk with the mirror or no, that did it. She expected the lack of appreciation, even the offhanded derision for her appearance (and really, that was fine. Really it was), but adding this instant dismissal of her intellect on top, adding that—she’d never felt so utterly rejected in her life.

And now she had two options. She could excuse herself to the loo and cry it out. Or she could get a little revenge.

“Well, um… I could… I could at least fetch you some tea.”

“Hm,” Sherlock mused. “Perhaps you _can_ be useful.”

Her fingers twitched. “Indeed.” And the oh-so-observant consulting detective took no notice of the hint of a bite that clipped through her vocal chords. She turned casually on her heels to make Sherlock’s favorite tea.

Molly was not an idiot. Molly paid attention. Molly listened. She heard Sherlock’s beautiful voice as he explained which chemical allowed last week’s murderer to render the poison he spiked his victim’s drink with tasteless. And she may not have some fancy palace between her temples, but she had stored that tidbit.

Molly pulled her mobile from her pocket while the tea steeped. She typed a text to John. John, who got to see Sherlock every day, John, who got to traipse along on all the adventures, John, who Sherlock was diligently creating something for, _John_ , who stole so damn much of her Sherlock’s attention. She deleted the first three texts she composed, finally settling on _I think Sherlock needs help. If it isn’t any trouble, could you come to the lab?_

 

\------------------------------------------

 

John sighed at the stack of paper taunting him on his desk. It was a slow day, but the clinic had just undergone a total overhaul of its cataloguing protocols, and John was the one chosen to fill out blank after blank of tedious information. Of course.

He jumped when his phone buzzed in his lap. He pulled it out, expecting some outrageous demand from his lovely flatmate, but was surprised to see Molly Hooper’s name instead. _I don’t even remember exchanging numbers_ …

After reading the text, he muttered “I wasn’t far off after all.” Sherlock had been anxious lately; poor Molly was probably on the receiving end of more unwitting rudeness than usual.

_Hello Molly. I’ll be over in a moment—slow day. Hope the git isn’t causing too much trouble. –JW_

“Sarah?” he called. “I need to step out for a bit, if that’s alright.”

She looked up from her own stack of drudgery. “Oh John, no one blames you. Just take the rest of the day.”

He smiled in gratitude. “You’re a saint.”

John gathered his things and began pondering what Sherlock could be up to this time.

 

\---------------------------

 

Molly smirked in anticipation when John came through the door. Then she remembered to look concerned. “Hello John,” she said soberly. “Thanks for stopping by. Today he’s been really…”

“Himself?” John scoffed. “No trouble, I’ll go talk to him. Or at him.”

“Thanks,” she said softly. “He was going on about how only you would do; apparently I’m useless.”

John’s jaw tightened slightly. “Don’t listen to that. Hold on.” He strode through the door to the lab proper to confront Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” he started.

“Busy.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“ _Busy_.”

“What’s up your arse today?”

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh. “You, right now, obviously.” And then his eyes widened, just for an instant. Or did he imagine it? “I’m _busy_ , John. Shouldn’t you be working, anyway? Wiping some child’s nose?”

John tensed. “I was quite _busy_ , too, actually,” he lied. “You know, helping people. Rather than belittling them.”

“Helping foolish, flu-ridden sods learn to use a medicine cabinet?” he scoffed. “Hardly compares to The Work. Which you’re wasting time distracting me from.”

“Really? Really Sherlock? Insulting Molly wasn’t enough for you today?”

“I haven’t insulted anyone. Just stating the obvious, like always.” He turned back to the microscope, then made his _ah-hah!_ face and frantically scribbled a note on the closest piece of paper.

“Sherlock—”

“Done now.”

“ _Sherlock_ —”

“I’m _busy_ , John, _honestly_. Go tend the ignorant masses. Entertain yourself with a crossword. I don’t care.”

John shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He thought for a moment. If he couldn’t reason with him, the least he could do was get him out of Molly’s hair. “And to think I picked up something from the morgue, just for you.”

Sherlock perked up immediately. “Really? What is it? That burn victim? Tell me it’s the burn victim.”

John shrugged and turned to leave. “Naughty children don’t get presents. I’ll just have to return it.”

He heard Sherlock’s chair topple with the sudden force of him rising to his feet. “John, you can’t! You can’t, you can’t!”

“Ta!” He called with a wave over his shoulder, taking unnecessarily large strides out the door.

“ _John_ , wait!”

Molly watched, overjoyed, as he chased John out, tugging at the impassive man’s sleeves. The second they were out of the building, she stalked over to Sherlock’s station and grinned devilishly. “A little of this, a little of that,” she sing-songed as she sprinkled a few drops of chemicals grabbed at random from a nearby shelf. “And of course, the key ingredient.” That special chemical that would fool even a brilliant detective’s tongue. Then she blissfully poured a generous amount into Sherlock’s tea. Finally, she filled the vial of the serum with water up to the original amount and dropped food coloring into the mixture until the concoction looked as if it had never been touched by her delicate hands.

“There we are,” she cooed to the tea cup. “A special cuppa for a special man. Mind you don’t choke on it.” The empty lab resonated with the sound of her maniacal laughter.

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

When Sherlock popped the boot of John’s car to find it devoid of human remains or anything remotely interesting, he gaped at John in shock. “You—you _lied_!”

“And you deserved it.”

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and pursed his lips. Without another word, he stormed off down the sidewalk, aimlessly stomping into the nearest alley.

John smiled triumphantly. It felt more satisfying than it probably should have to piss him off.

 _Now then_ , he thought. _I’ll just go check on Molly and then enjoy_ not _doing paperwork at the flat_.

 

\--------------------------------

 

After finding a much relieved Molly—happier than he’d ever seen her, actually; Sherlock must have really been an arse—he lingered in the lab while she left to retrieve some materials. His eyes landed on a lovely cup of tea. _Icing on the cake_ , he thought. He downed Sherlock’s tea with great satisfaction. Then, a little skip in his step, he began the trip home.

 

\----------------------------------

 

John leaned against a lamppost in a daze. He’d been driving along just fine when suddenly his stomach lurched and he was flooded with an overwhelming wave of nausea. He’d nearly rear-ended someone. So he parked in the nearest spot he could find that didn’t seem likely to get ticketed and was grateful that he was nearly home.

The open air should have helped, but it didn’t seem to matter how much oxygen he dragged into his lungs. The insistent nausea wasn’t going away. And his vision was starting to blur. With a trembling hand, he started to pull his phone from his pocket, but dropped it when a fierce shudder racked through his body.

The phone clattered to the sidewalk. And then John stumbled down after it. And then he snapped his head up and felt a sudden, intense clarity that he’d only experienced in the most vital combat situations, the ones that ripped a resolved lucidity out of him that he didn’t even know he had. Eyes wide, he stared as all of Baker Street, all of London, all of _the world_ came to life in bursts and streaks of color.

It was all so interesting. How had he not noticed before? Not just the cars zipping past or the people, all varied and shining like precious stones, milling ever forward, but the tiny things, like the cracks in the pavement, the leaves in the gutter gathered just so, the strip of paint beginning to peel off the lamppost…

The lamppost. John’s mouth watered. The cold metal felt electric under the pads of his worn fingers, and he couldn’t resist dragging them feather light over one of the ridges at the base. “Ah!” He jerked his hand away. Nearly doubled over with the force of arousal that jolted through his gut. But he couldn’t stay shocked for long, not when everything was so damn beautiful, and he found he just had to taste that metal, _needed_ to feel it against his lips. He leaned forward slowly, shuddering in anticipation, and stuck out his tongue to—

“Sir?” John whipped around to see a young woman—oh how cruel for such a beauty to see him like this, red lips, red hair—he gulped and blinked.

“Right. Sorry. Fine, I’m fine.” He tried to give the woman a reassuring smile. It didn’t seem to work.

“Sure you don’t want me to call for… something?”

“Really, miss, I’m fine, I swear. I’m a doctor, in fact!” He said, rummaging through his pockets for his work badge. “Ha, yes, ha, here!” he giggled, brandishing his glowing credentials.

The woman squinted at the badge. “A discount card for Angelo’s?”

John frowned. “That’s not right…” He tried to look at the card, but his eyes drifted to the beautiful woman’s body and how she was leaned over just so, just a little more and he’d be able to—

“Okay, you know what? I can see what you’re doing.” She straightened up. John frowned again. And then smiled—she also happened to be wearing a lovely skirt. “But acting totally mad really isn’t going to get you anywhere. That’s the last time I stop to check on a man,” she grumbled, already turning to walk away.

“Wait, wait, miss!” John called weakly. But then he spotted a parking meter and thought how incredible it must feel to wrap one’s arms around it. He cooed and crawled on hands and knees to his newest obsession. He hugged the meter like a life ring. It was cold, but to John it felt warm, so warm, and it helped him stay upright so that he could look at all the other tantalizing things around him. And then the clarity came over him again, and he realized in shock that his trousers were far too tight, and that _everything_ he laid eyes on made them grow tighter.

“Home, home, got to get home,” John uttered in a panic. He stumbled to his feet and started walking, shaky at first, but gaining momentum until he was sprinting down the sidewalk, the fabric of his clothes nearly over stimulating his feverish skin.  

 

\---------------------------------

 

Sherlock finally stopped to sit on a park bench. He glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes. Had it been long enough for John to realize the rudeness of his behavior and think up an apology? Yes, it must have been. John never stayed mad at him for long. And he was tired of walking around anyway. If he was going to be bored, he might as well do it back at the flat where he could get comfortable.

So off he went, hands in his pockets, to hear John’s apology.

 

\--------------------------------

 

John groaned. By some miracle, he made it to the flat without getting arrested, and as soon as he slammed the door shut behind him, he did the first thing he could think of to soothe the overwhelming need building in his belly—he rutted his arse against the doorknob. “Oh, fuck,” he sighed, still breathing hard. The knob was so perfect, so perfect—how had he never noticed before?—the way it rolled against his backside, massaging the tight bundle of muscles guarding the cleft of his arse, parting them just slightly when he ground down, pressing at his—

“Ah, _god_!” He clamped a hand over his crotch. It was too much. He was so hard it was really beginning to hurt, but he was too distracted to just drop his trousers and get it over with; the instant the thought entered his mind, he saw the sultry fabric adorning the arm of the sofa and he was gone, stumbling forward to shove his hips against it, to grab the back of the sofa with a white knuckled grip and sink his teeth into the cushion. He grunted whilst he thrust back and forth over the arm, tasting the cottony fibres on his tongue, letting his eyes flutter closed.

He thrust too hard, jammed down on his erection, and let out a yelp. His eyes snapped open, but before he could really properly register the little stab of pain, his dilated pupils landed on the kitchen. And those eyes widened like saucers. His legs were shaking too much to walk anymore, so he started to crawl, and then he realized the floorboards felt _amazing_ , so he started to slither, dragging his clothed cock over the floor. He was drooling. He didn’t care.

He reached the kitchen and raised himself up on hands and knees to lick the refrigerator door, panting like a dog. He started to bite it and swirled his tongue all over the metal, deliciously cold metal, and humped at the air.

Then he saw the rolling pin sitting out on the counter. He clambered up just enough to grab it and slid it underneath him. He rutted into it, rolling himself over the smooth wood from arse to tip, head tossed back, mouth open wide.

And then he saw the sexiest thing he could ever recall seeing, at least in his current state—their large, wrought-iron skillet, hanging from the wall. He had to have it. He had to have it _now_.

Once he got it down, thick wood handle squeezed into his palm, he cradled the beauty to his chest and rubbed the dip at the edge of the pan for pouring over his nipples. He groaned at the sensation—so hard and stimulating even through his jumper, and then he realized the motion caused the handle to bob up and down right in front of his face, and oh god he just had to have it in his mouth.

 

\-----------------------------

 

“John, I hope you’ve prepared a damn good apology speech because…” Sherlock stopped in his tracks at the threshold to the living room. Where he had a thoroughly sufficient view of the kitchen. And the man writhing on the floor with a rolling pin trapped between his legs, the handle of the frying pan impaling his mouth, and random pieces of silverware strewn around him.

“John, what—” The question died in his throat when John’s eyes darted over to him. His pupils were blown wide, hair mussed in all directions, the end of the handle jutting out against his cheek. He looked absolutely wrecked.

John’s jaw dropped open, the pan clattered to the floor, and then he let out the most obscene moan Sherlock had ever heard, threw his head back, and came in his pants, hips snapping upward into the air. “Sh… L-Lock…” he breathed with a desperate shudder, then he convulsed into a loose ball and muttered “Damn… that… fucking… coat.”

Once Sherlock regained control of his limbs, he walked over to the little puddle of ex-Army doctor on the kitchen floor and knelt beside him. “You took the serum.”

John just smiled at him hazily.

“But I didn’t design it to do this…” he frowned. “Someone must have tampered with it. And you drank it. John, why would you drink it? I wasn’t even close to finished with it.”

“Sherlock, you’re so goddamn pretty,” John slurred. “Keep talking. I want to keep watching your pretty pretty mouth move.”

Sherlock smirked. “John, that’s a rather gay thing to say.”

“Don’t care!” he chirped with a drunken wave of his arm. Then he seemed to sober up for a moment. “Sherlock, why are my pants wet?”

He rolled his eyes. “Because you’re a filthy animal with no restraint and you ejaculated all over yourself on the dirty floor.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” John moaned. “God, yes, deduce for me, Sherlock. Unravel the world for me. Unravel _me_.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Interesting. You have a deduction kink? Or is it merely the serum…”

“Oh no, no, no,” John sputtered. “Always, I’m _always_ excited when you open your brilliant mouth.”

“It would seem in addition to making you fuck cookware, the serum has eliminated your filter,” he mused.

John suddenly erupted into a fit of giggles. “You! You said f-fffuck!” And then the giggles drifted off. His eyes dragged over Sherlock’s body overwhelmingly fiercely, and then he moaned another “Oh, _god_ ,” into the floor.

Sherlock looked down to see John’s trousers straining to contain him again. “And it appears the original effects haven’t worn off yet.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The joke was a play on the word ‘pansexual.’ “I didn’t know you got aroused by cookware,” my cheeky friend said. So that’s why poor John found himself getting dirty in the kitchen.
> 
> **Please note that the term 'pansexual' actually refers to a person who can be attracted to someone of any gender or gender identity. It does NOT have anything to do with kitchen ware. This story is just for fun and is not meant in any negative way. I have the utmost respect for people of all different identities across the spectrum.**
> 
> Thanks to CumberCollectedBabe for pointing out that I should make note of that!


End file.
